Not All Losers Wear Capes
by HowToFailAtWriting
Summary: It's been six weeks since he's taken down The Vulture. Six weeks since Liz left school, six weeks since all the craziness started. And it's not over yet. Now a new threat looms over Queens as a new villain rises. This one is part of a mysterious organization hell-bent on taking down Tony Stark. Peter is left to juggle his schoolwork, his crime-fighting duties and... romance.
1. Prologue

Oh god. Oh god, oh god oh god oh god oh god.

Blood gushed out of the wound, spilling out of the red spandex, spilling out of his hands, spilling onto the cold concrete floor. The world went still. The pain was like nothing he had ever felt before. He clung on to his consciousness with fervent desperation, refusing to let go.

"Hey, hey, are you okay?" Michelle touched his shoulder uncertainly. Black spots danced around the edge of his vision. His heart pounds heavily in his ears, _thump, thump, thump,_ as he shakily stands up, pushing himself off the alley floor with Michelle for support. Why did it hurt so much?

Peter sprayed some web fluid over the bullet hole. He gritted his teeth as it hissed and stung at him in vengeance. His webs would have to hold for now. God, it felt a thousand times worse than any pain he'd ever been through.

"Alright so you got shot in the kneecap... ouch. Yeah that's not a good place to get shot in." Her words were calm and collected, but her quivering voice betrayed her. Michelle helps steady him, with considerable effort.

Peter wanted to say something really smart, like "Well thanks, I'll keep that in mind for the future" but in the moment, all his scrambled brain could think up was "Uhhh thanks" and a grunt.

"So... I'm assuming you don't want me to call an ambulance or anything?" Peter nodded.

The two of them slowly made their way out of the dark alley. It was a lonely and deathly quiet street, a part of Queens he was unfamiliar with.

Michelle breaks the silence. "So... do you have anyone who can help?"

Peter tried to think clearly. Aunt May would be a dead giveaway to his real identity. Ned would be entirely useless in this scenario. But who else could help?

He spotted a gleaming tower, massive and beaming with light, rising above all other buildings in the distance. And Peter knew who to look for.

"Tony Stark."

xxxxx

And that was how Peter found himself outside the new Stark Tower at near midnight, clinging on to a girl he barely knew with a bad limp.

"Hey, uh, I can just walk in by myself here. You can go home now." Peter said awkwardly. He made a feeble attempt to remove his arm from her shoulder, but almost ended up collapsing onto the ground.

It was kind of embarrassing, really. A superhero who needed help from a normal civilian? And what made it even more embarrassing was that he knew her. He tried not to dwell too much on this fact.

But it was just so bizarre. Waiting outside Iron Man's home with his schoolmate-and-sort-of-friend. He had never really thought about what Michelle did outside of school, or that she really did have a life outside school.

"Yeah, right. And miss the chance to see Tony Stark's new mansion?" Michelle almost seemed excited. "Anyway you got shot in the kneecap, I'm pretty sure you can't walk by yourself."

"It's not far from here, I think I can walk a couple of steps." Peter tried to reassure himself that it wasn't really that far. He should leave her behind now anyway, while he still had the chance. The longer she hung around, the more likely it was she discovered his true identity.

"Well if you say so." Michelle smirked. She watched him slowly remove his arm from around her neck, stumble a bit, hobble two steps towards the tower and face-plant into the dirt. "Sure you don't need any help?"

"Alright, fine, you can come too."

Peter pressed the new intercom at the new gate. Buzz. Tony's voice crackles through the speaker. "Who's there?" AC/DC could be heard in the background.

"Hey, Mr St...uh, Tony. It's Spider-Man."

The gate clicked open. The two of them were greeted by cool air and the calming sound of trickling water. In the center of the lobby sat a very expensive, intricately sculpted marble water fountain that looked like it cost more than Queens itself. Michelle was... a little more than just amazed. Not that he could blame her. After all, the fountain was only a small part of the lobby. Tapestries and paintings rested on the wall, most notably Vincent Van Gogh's _The Starry Night_. Till this day, he still hadn't figured out whether it was a replica or the real deal. Peter ended up having to tug a distracted Michelle into the elevator.

The elevator doors 'dinged' open. They had arrived at the top floor. Immediately, the two of them were greeted by the smell of something burning.

Michelle looked around, impressed. "Wow, this place is a dump."

She wasn't wrong. The floor was buried under newspapers and bits of gear. A far cry from the usual state of the tower. The TV was on, loudly blaring out information on a recent murder. Newspapers flew across the room, one smacking him in the face as it passed by.

With Michelle's support, he limped his way over to where Tony was, on the couch pouring himself a drink. He's not even watching where he's pouring it, too preoccupied by a newspaper in front of him.

"You live here?" Her face is one of complete incredulity, and disgust.

"I know." He raises the glass to them, oblivious to the fact it wasn't a compliment. "Want one?"

It was only then that Tony looked up from his newspaper, and saw Peter's leg. His face went from calm to very, very panicked in an instant.

Tony set the bottle onto the floor and rushed over to help him. Peter winced at the hot spike of pain going through his leg as he was heaved over Tony's shoulder. "What the hell happened to you?"

Michelle filled him in on the events of the night, as the three rushed down a fancy hallway somewhere in the massive tower. She rushed through the details of everything, with how he had saw her cornered by two men, jumped in and helped, and stupidly got shot. As she retold her account of the night, Tony dashed by hundreds of mahogany-and-gold doors, until he reached one with a **'TOP SECRET'** sign above it. He kicked the door in.

The lights are switched on, and Peter has a hard time believing his eyes. Four cowboys, one looking suspiciously like Clint Eastwood, are stood at the back of the room. He tilted his head to the side disbelievingly. Was he hallucinating?

Tony set Peter down onto a bench. He knocked on the head of a cowboy, and a resounding metallic echo answered."Human-like automatons, one of my more recent works." He flicked on some switch behind the robots and they all came to life.

Immediately, all the people—no, automatons—crowded around him, examining his leg.

"Pretty neat, huh?" Tony observed them proudly. Peter, on the other hand, was a little less thrilled at the prospect of having cowboy robots treat his leg. "Are they tested?"

"Yup. Don't worry, only one of them has ever malfunctioned."

Shockingly enough, Peter didn't exactly feel reassured by that statement. Three of the robots suddenly deactivated themselves, deciding this job wasn't important enough for them. The last one, Clint Eastwood, wheeled out a trolley of instruments that didn't look so friendly.

The automaton picked up a large syringe from the tray. In his other hand, he, no—it, held a pair of tweezer-looking things. Peter gulped.

He felt the small prick of the syringe, as the anesthetic entered his bloodstream. He felt his spider senses try to pull him away from the needle, and how it took almost all his strength to stay completely still. And then he felt... like he could sleep for a thousand years.

Suddenly the rough, hard surface of the bench became the softest bed in the world. He could feel himself dozing off, with the bright and blurry lights shining above him... and the sight of Clint Eastwood about to cut his leg open...

Everything faded away as Peter took the best night's rest he had gotten since the fight with The Vulture.


	2. New York’s Finest (Murderers)

"Hey! Hey!" Peter was rudely shaken awake by an annoyed Happy. Golden rays of sunlight poured into his eyes, chasing away any possibility of falling back asleep. Peter raised his arms in a halfhearted attempt to block out the sun. "Just five more minutes... I'm not gonna be that late for school..."

"Peter..." He buried his face into the comfortable fabric of his pillow. For some reason, his leg was hurting an insane ton. "Peter..." He continued to ignore him. Happy began shaking more violently.

"PETER!"

"Aagh!" The sudden noise finally scared him out of bed, and onto the cold, unforgiving rock floor of the road. Wait... road?

"Woah, where am I? What happened?" His mouth tasted like dirt, leg hurting for some reason. Why was the sun so glaringly bright? And... he was wearing an old shirt way too big for him?

Happy sighed in exasperation. "Peter, get moving! Tony wants us in the police precinct by half past seven, sharp!" He tapped on his watch to emphasize the point.

Peter's body felt like a bag of bricks as he pushed himself off the road. He tried to ignore the horrible burning and itching sensation in his leg. The events of last night began coming back to him, the two men in masks, the bullet in his leg... His fingers glided over the part of the leg where he had been shot, just to make sure it was real. "We're... where?"

"The police precinct. Now get ready."

His Spider-Man mask and suit were shoved into his hands, and he was left alone to change, Happy leaving to do 'something else'.

Peter did a quick take on his surroundings. Nobody walking by, that was good. No security cameras, but that was only from what he could see. How visible were the windows? He couldn't let anyone see him change into the Spider-Man outfit.

And what were they doing at the police precinct? His mind wandered to the incident last night, where he had gotten shot. It made no sense. Mr Stark wouldn't have brought this problem to the police. It was nothing they couldn't handle themselves, and if it was information he needed, Mr Stark could just as easily have hacked into the police databases.

But there was no use in just wondering, so he followed Happy's orders and put the suit on. (With a great deal of pain, because as careful as he tried to be, the wound still hurt like all hell.)

A few knocks on the car door alerted Peter to Happy's return. But nothing would have prepared him for what Happy was wearing. "What are those?"

Peter tried to disguise his laughter with a coughing fit, but it was obvious Happy didn't believe it. He was wearing a grey old shirt and pants, that looked like it had never been washed. His janitor's cap was way too big for his head, flopping over and covering his face like some sort of shady drug dealer.

Happy somehow managed to look even grumpier than usual, though Peter couldn't blame him. The black plastic bag in his hand, which reeked of fish so badly it made the boys' locker room in school smell good.

Happy held open the trash bag expectantly. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get in."

That wiped the smile off his face. The reek of trash was strong enough to keep the flies away. He couldn't possibly be expected to get carried around in that, it didn't look large enough to fit even half of him! Peter chuckled awkwardly. "You know what? I think I can just... limp over there."

Happy narrowed his eyes, in the way he always did when he was being serious. "Hey, Tony's orders. I can't let you walk in by yourself. I have to sneak you in. Or, if you don't like this plan, I can just bring you inside in a wheelchair, and give all the cops a good laugh."

"But..." Peter faltered. Deep down, he knew it was no use arguing. The prospect of being snuck in in a trash bag wasn't too appealing to him but... entering the police precinct as an injured Spider-Man? His reputation was going to take a few hits. And his reputation was already very shaky with the police.

He sighed. "Alright, how are we going to do this?"

The stranger lowered down his car window. The guard on duty was a large, pudgy man in his forties, with a head as bald as an egg. He reminded the man of a chipmunk, with the stuffed mouth he was constantly shoving chicken wings into.

The guard briefly looked him over, decided he wasn't a threat, and chowed down on another chicken wing. "Name?" He asked in a monotone voice, pulling out a clipboard and a pen with his greasy fingers.

The man twirled a sleeping dart between his fingers, poised and ready to attack. He grinned. "Bullseye."

"What kind of a weird name is that?" The guard had a hysterical moment of laughter. "Bullseye—oh my god it's like one of those stupid hero names! Like Tin Man, or that bird man guy. Hawkear? Wait no, Hawkeye." The guard had another laugh. "Sorry pal, I'm gonna need your real name."

The man could feel his patience draining away. His fists clenched even tighter around his sleeping dart, ready to just murder the man in front of him. No one in the past would have dared made fun of him like that.

He forced himself to breathe. That wasn't the reason for his visit. "I'm a famous hitman who disappeared a couple years ago, ring any bells?"

The guard looked like he was about to piss himself laughing. "Bullse—hey, wait a minute...isn't that the name of that shooter who never misses?"

His eyes narrowed in suspicion. His hand shot out for the alarm switch, but Bullseye was too quick. One stab of a dart later and the guard was lying face down on his desk, drooling.

He shook his head. Cops these days. Bullseye swiped the bucket of chicken wings from him. "Thanks for the food, buddy."

He hit the pedal and sped off, into the carpark of the police station.

And that was how Peter found himself being carried through a police station in a trash bag, at half past seven in the morning. It was around the third time he had been slammed into a wall that he really began to reconsider his decision. Maybe just being humiliated in front of the entire police force would be better than this.

He could hear Happy's heavy breathing from through the bag, as he muttered a long string of profanities. He didn't need to be able to look at the police officers to know they were all staring.

Peter was way too ready to escape the dark, stinky abyss of a prison that he was trapped in by the time they arrived. The bag, with him inside, were set down onto the floor.

"You can come out now, kid."

His head burst out of the trash bag, gasping for air like a drowning man in water. The smell of a boring office had never smelled so good.

Tony helped him into a swivel chair, and put a foam cup of coffee into his hands. There was a man in the room Peter didn't recognize, an elderly man with an important looking police uniform.

Tony patted him on the back, and introduced the two of them. "Mr Lee, Spider-man. Spider-man, Mr Lee. Now, Mr Lee, as I have already informed you, my friend here was involved in a recent... event I've talked to you about. I believe he can help you find out more about the attack last night."

He turned to Peter for a second. "This is Captain Lee, Head of the precinct we're currently in, and I asked him to look through what happened last night. If there's anyone in the police department who could find your ambushers, it'd be him."

If he was being honest, the man looked a little too old for his job. Peter wasn't sure if the man could find his own dentures. But he trusted Tony, so he hid his doubt and played along.

"Captain Lee, would you mind giving me a moment of privacy with Spider-man?" The old man chuckled and walked out, Happy exchanged a brief nod and followed. The door closed behind him almost noiselessly. Now it was just the two of them still in the room.

Peter scratched his knee, the one with the bullet wound, just to give himself something to do. Right now, he was bursting with questions for Tony. But he could already tell those were going to have to wait.

Tony gently took the Spider-man mask off Peter's face. Peter could see a sort pf weariness in his eyes, a look of tiredness that made him look even older than he already was. Tony placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Peter, you're going to be asked to give a witness account of last night, alright? Answer everything honestly, and don't leave out a single detail. Except for the part about my human-like automatons, forget you ever saw those."

Peter felt the slightest bit of anger rise up in his throat. Why was he dragged here, with no explanation or agreement, to answer questions for the police? "But... why, Mr Stark? This is just a small deal, we could easily find and capture those guys by ourselves. Why are we here?"

Tony shook his head in the annoying way people always did, before they told him he was too young to understand. "Peter, I'll explain it in a while. But right now, I need you to just cooperate with the police."

And just like that, their talk was over. Tony called in Captain Lee, and Captain Lee called in a young, stiff mannered detective to do the questioning. Everyone else cleared out of the room, including Captain Lee, who generously allowed them to use his own office.

In the end, it was just the stony faced detective, referred to as 'Detective Brooks', and himself. Detective Brooks already had his notepad out, eyes intently staring into Peter's soul. He shifted his foot awkwardly.

"So... do I just start talking now?"

Bullseye sighed. The police precinct had turned out to be even less impressive than he already thought it to be. Practically no security, lazy guards... It was almost like they wanted to get terrorized. He sighed. It was going to make his plan so much harder. But he would have to make do.

He entered the room he was instructed to go to. It was a meeting room, of sorts. Two men sat opposite each other, in a hushed, heated discussion. One of them was the captain of the precinct—an incompetent elderly police officer—he would pose no threat, and the other... Tony Stark.

 _...Tony Stark?_

He quickly recovered from the initial shock, and the brief moment of panic that rose from his chest. Goddamnit. It was too early. He had banked on Stark coming in at the last minute to save the day, not at the start of the plan.

He took a deep breath. That was fine. Everything was okay. You didn't become a master assassin without learning how to improvise. All it meant was that he had to play his cards just right.

The two men stopped talking as Bullseye drew nearer, turning to face the unwelcome visitor. "Excuse me, but what permission do you have to be in here?" Stark shot him an impatient look.

His hand went into his coat pocket, fist clenching around a dart. He even had a brief moment of pleasure, at imagining the look on Stark's face. "To help you."

Quick as a flash, he shot a sleeping dart at the captain. It pierced into the flesh of his old, withered neck without a sound, and a second later he was out for the count.

Stark stared on in horror, his supposedly genius brain obviously not caught up to what had just occurred. Bullseye wouldn't deny he enjoyed seeing the _'genius billionaire'_ so shaken, but he had to act fast. "Listen to me, Mr Stark, I used to be part of a group that's planning to assassinate you and steal your suits. I need your help to take them down."

Stark finally came to his senses, and began shouting for security. His watch suddenly became a blazing red metal gauntlet, the familiar red of his fancy Iron Man suits. The master assassin barely managed to duck the first few blasts.

Bullseye had time for a quick look out of the room. Not good. Multiple guards were already headed their way. He lunged towards Stark, delivering a blow to his face worthy of a nosebleed. The billionaire stumbled backwards and onto the floor, in a daze.

He took a moment to congratulate himself on the punch. Hard enough to inflict damage, light enough not to knock him out. "Stark, when all of this is over, come find me."

He grabbed a fistful of darts from his pocket and headed out of the door, ready to deal with the guards and the rest of the precinct. Now all that was left was to wait, and hope that not everybody here was entirely incompetent.

Peter told him everything he remembered about the night. Except the part about the cowboy robots. But everything else. From the way he kicked the mask off one of the thugs to the way the blood gushed out of his wound, and every other small detail in between.

"Right, so then the two of them run off and leave me behind, with Michelle." Peter racked his brains for any other useful bits of information. He was fairly sure he was missing out some of the details, but nothing he could really recall...

"Wait, wait, wait... So you kicked the mask off one of them, then the other one shot you in the knee, then they both got away?" He scribbled furiously on the notepad, the pen squeaking in protest.

"Yeah, but you're forgetting the best bit! Because when I kicked his mask off, I went, "It's time to face justice!"" His grin faltered slightly when the detective didn't so much as smile. "...Do you get it? Because I unmasked him..."

The detective nodded politely, but with obvious disinterest. "Yes, could you please continue where you left off?"

But he never got to continue his story. Because at that moment, their conversation was suddenly interrupted by the door slamming wide open. Happy burst into the room, beads of sweat dripping down his face. Peter had never seen him so panicked before.

"The police station is under attack! Detective Brooks, keep Peter safe in the room. I'm going to handle the problem."

The change in Detective Brooks was immediate. He practically flew out of the chair, movements alert and agile, gun out in a matter of seconds. "Wait up, I'm coming with you."

But Happy had already left, with a last yell of "Something's going on, watch Peter!"

"Peter? Who's Peter—oh." His steel blue eyes landed on the teenager. "So that's your name."

Peter had already stopped listening. He'll worry about a random detective knowing his name later. He hobbled towards the door, ignoring the burning pain in his leg.

"Hey, where are you going?" Detective Brooks still looked mad at being left with him.

Peter kept going. "I'm sorry, but I've got to go. Mr Stark needs my help!"

Bullseye mentally prepared himself for the rest of the plan. The two guards were charging towards him, guns at the ready. He would have to be quick, and precise.

"Drop your weapons, get down on the ground. We won't hesitate to shoot!"

The yelling of the guards drew the attention of every police officer and, within seconds, well over a dozen guns were turned on him.

Now, this next part of the plan had to be done very precisely. He held his palm open, allowing all the officers around him to see the darts in his hand. Slowly, very slowly, he began to crouch, as if to drop the darts on the ground.

But then he didn't. A swift flick of the wrist and both darts sliced through the air, and found themselves in the necks of nearby police officers. Bullseye lunged towards one of the police officers hit, ripping his gun right out of the holster.

He wrapped his arm around the neck of the policeman, a pistol aimed at his head.

Oh, how the tables had turned.

He grinned. The rest of the officers now looked a little uneasy.

"Drop the gun and the officer, or we'll shoot!" A particularly bold cop shouted out.

And for the first time in months, Bullseye had a real laugh. One that sent him into near hysterics. He tightened his grip on the victim. "Listen to me, you stupid bastards. Any of you shoot me, I'll shoot your friend. Who's willing to take that chance?"

He could feel the discomfort and unsettlement rippling through them. What fools. The police officers shifted uneasily, unsure of what to do.

And so began the waiting game—an impasse that seemed to drag on for forever. Nobody dared to move, nobody dared to make a sound. The silence was deafening, every muscle tense and on edge. _Any second now..._

 _Any second now..._

And at last, the tension of the situation was broken. A smokey, thick black cloud of a gas came out of nowhere, engulfing anything it came across.

"Hey! What the..." In less than seconds, chaos and confusion had taken over the police station. The gas covered every inch of the place. From all around, cops panicked and shouted for assistance.

Bullseye slipped on the gas mask hidden in his backpack, and waited for the sleeping gas to finish the job. Two quick bullets and he had shot out all the surveillance cameras in the vicinity. Bullseye dropped the hostage onto the floor and continued on to the next step of the mission.

Get captured.

The smoke had already cleared, for the most part, when Spider-Man had left the room. Bodies piled up on the floor, police officers and civilians alike. Peter had a brief freak out before realizing that they all still had a pulse.

He was pleasantly surprised to find out that Detective Brooks had joined him, and together, the two of them trudged on, following the trail of bodies. They didn't have to look very far. They ended up in front of a blond-haired man, with eyes that stared into your soul.

He had a small smile on his face, and an air of nonchalance about him. Just standing here made Peter's spider senses go nuts. This guy was danger!

The man stepped forward, over a body, and extended a hand. Detective Brooks raised his pistol a little more threateningly. "Pleasure to meet you, Spider-Man. I'm Bullseye."

Just looking into his eyes, Peter felt chills go down his spine. The assassin's eyes were brown—but not the warm brown that comforted you—it was a dark, murky brown that hinted at unknown secrets and countless dead bodies.

And he thought the Vulture was scary.

Peter crossed his arms in (or at least he'd like to think so) an intimidating manner. He sent a silent prayer that his voice wouldn't crack awkwardly when he talked. "Yeah, no thanks. I have this thing about not shaking hands with criminals. You see, I'd like to keep _my_ hands free of blood."

The name was undeniably familiar though. Bullseye... Where had he heard that name before?

Brooks tightened his grip on the pistol. "New York's famed hitman, from the early 2000s."

Bullseye shrugged in acknowledgement. Then he said something unexpected. "Look, I came here to make peace. Because there's something you need to know. I need your protection. There's a new guy in town, you're gonna need my help to beat him."

Suddenly, a flash of red and gold streaked past Peter, slamming straight into Bullseye. It was... Iron Man?

The fire from the rocket boots and repulsors slowly died out. The Iron Man visor came off, to reveal a pissed off Tony Stark. An out-of-breath Happy followed behind. "So, you were saying something?"

The professional hitman was already out cold, his body limp on the floor.


End file.
